Human Conditions
by Amatara
Summary: Pon Farr may be a Vulcan condition, but in Spock's case, it's a human one as well. Several human ones, in fact. Leonard McCoy would know.


_i. Irony_

The first time, he doesn't want a soul to see. Not his captain, not his crewmates. Not you, who not only care but are bound by oath to care, would care even if it killed you. Instead, he tries to hide it from the world. And so, naturally, as those things go – the whole ship knows.

You're tempted, then, to tell him a thing or two about irony. One of the great truths of life – that nothing ever happens by forcing it, nothing ever goes away by shutting it out. Push in one direction, life is sure to shove you right back. Like a teenage kid you try to keep in the house, but goes sneaking right out the window at night. Like a wife, who drifts father away the harder you try.

Yeah. You of all people would know about irony, wouldn't you?

And not just you. Christine, you're sure, could tell him better than anyone. Spending years hoping for some kind, _any_ kind, of emotional response, only to get it in the shape of a thrown bowl of Plomeek soup. And Jim – the closest thing Spock has to a friend, nearly getting himself killed over a woman that neither of them really knows. If that's not irony, you don't know what is.

Or you could have told him, when he was on that biobed, sullen and trembling but still fighting with all he had to keep you out. Being his doctor – and, you hope, something of a friend as well – yet not being able to lift a finger to help. To know he'd have died, quietly, rather than confide in you. One more slice of irony to add to the stack.

You never do tell him, in the end.

You figure it out, and Spock lives, and Jim lives, and seeing Spock's face the moment he realizes – you're grinning too widely to say a damn thing.

* * *

_ii. Trust_

The second time, he comes to find you. Not openly – stealthily. Catching you already half-asleep, numb and bleary-eyed after a late-night shift, but still, he comes, and you let him in.

Your drink is still on the desk where you put it. Saurian brandy, half a finger left. Spock picks it up, twirls it around in his hands. Looking tense. Says, dryly, "You _are_ aware that alcohol, in humans, is not actually conductive to sleep?" Raised eyebrow oddly forced, and you harrumph, obliging.

"I'm a doctor – damn well I'm aware. Like I'm aware, in humans, not all cures are rational. Not that a pointy-eared Vulcan would know."

"Ah, yes." A look in his eyes that's impossible to read. "A human's unique capability of taking benefit from cures that do not actually work." He tilts his head and holds out the glass, lets you take it from him. For a second, his hand spasms against yours, and abruptly you're wide awake and stone sober.

"What's wrong?" you mutter, and to your surprise, he tells you everything.

"_Zarabeth_?" You shake your head, and he nods for what's got to be the fiftieth time. Flinches only a little as you look for his pulse, find it racing, no wonder. "Spock – that was _five months_ ago. Either that or – five-thousand-odd years, depending on how you count. And speaking of counting –"

"As you stated, Doctor, not everything is governed by arithmetic." Sharp breath that's almost a sigh. "I was not even aware she and I had… bonded." Last words so quiet you have to strain to hear them. Another shudder, eyes pinching shut, and if the tightness in your throat isn't panic, you're not sure what it is.

"For God's sake, Spock, she died – what, five millennia ago! If you need – _that_ –"

"I do not think _'that'_ will be necessary, Doctor." Awkward pause, and for a second you could almost swear he's smiling – tense sliver of a smile, all eyes and no lips, but still a smile. "The effects are not quite so – profound. I am confident I can muster them with meditation. But I will require –" He shivers briefly, breath hitching a little like he's in pain. "I will require some time. Medication, most likely. And privacy. I would prefer if this did not became public knowledge."

You lean back, let out the breath you've been holding. "So what you're saying is you want me – to _cover_ for you? Find some excuse to take you off duty?" Another nod, and you blink, incredulous. "Did you tell Jim?"

"Not – for now," he says, then, before you find your breath to protest, "Please, Doctor. The fact that I am here, discussing this with you, does not imply this has stopped being a private matter. It is very simple: you were there, with Zarabeth, the Captain was not. This made you the logical person to come to. I assure you, I will speak with Jim as well, but –"

"All right. All right, Spock, I just –" Still struggling to digest that, you find the glass of brandy, toss down what's left. "All right." Deep breath, and dammit, if you're the one he decided to trust, you sure as hell can't fail him. "We'll get you through this, Spock. You can bet on that."

If there's emotion in his eyes, you don't call him on it. "Doctor, I never doubted that you would."

* * *

_iii. Empathy_

The third time, you don't have a clue. Not that anything that's happened to you the past few days has made any sense. All you know is you're on route to Genesis, a piece of Vulcan mind still stuck inside your head, Jim hovering over you like a brooding mother hen. That, and you've all just flushed your careers right down the drain, though no one seems to give a damn.

There's no warning, none at all. One minute you're nodding off in Spock's chair on the bridge – the only place that still feels right for you to be. The next you're hot as hell and shaking like a palsy victim, and you don't even know what's happened in between. For a second, there's the nagging sense it wasn't even you it happened to, then the feeling tapers off, and you're just exhausted.

"Bones?" Jim's voice is hushed, edgy, like it's been since this started. Not that you blame him. It's scary enough to be dragging Spock's _katra_ around, but for Jim, who's used to being in control, it has to be even worse.

" 'm Fine," you mutter, though you're not sure you are. Have to suppress another shudder, another flash of being in a different mind than yours. It's not that you're hurting, it's that _someone else_ is. Which sounds crazy enough you wonder if you're starting to lose it again. If you didn't know better – but no. Just – no.

Jim doesn't look convinced either, but he sucks it up for your – for _both_ your sakes. "In a normal situation, I'd order you to Sickbay, Bones." Faint half-grin. "But I'm afraid right now –"

"We're a little short on medical staff." You manage a chuckle. "Yeah. Don't worry about it, Jim." Grin back and wave him off, and somehow, you manage to drift to sleep. When you wake up, you can hardly even remember the feeling.

It's only hours later, after losing David and losing the Enterprise, after everything's gone to hell and all you've got left is Spock's too-quiet form on the gurney, that it comes back to you. Sitting at Spock's bedside because it's the only place you can be right now, seeing one crewman after another file in to see him. Jim spends an hour or so there with you, eyes bright with tears he still can't shed. Spock's hand clenched in his like it'll make a difference, like he wasn't able to hold his son's. And of course that's how it'll always feel to him – Spock's life for David's, even though that's never how life works, no man should have to bear that burden. But you know he will, anyway.

Saavik enters just as Jim is called out. Sits beside you without a word, and you don't even know where the question came from until you're asking it.

"Something happened to him, didn't it? Down on Genesis." You watch her turn her head towards you, enquiring. "I mean – apart from the being dead and coming back to life and aging. Something else, something – painful."

"You could sense it," Saavik says, and it's not a question. He nods, and suddenly there's warmth in her eyes, then more warmth as she picks up Spock's hand, strokes it with a pair of fingers. "I can tell you, but most likely it will not mean much to you. It was _Pon Farr_." He swallows, hard, and she watches him, curious. "You know of it?"

You don't know what shocks you most – the word, or the ease with which she says it out loud. "Yeah. Yeah, I do," you mutter. "But – he's fine, now, isn't he? Physically, at least. So how –"

All she's done is incline her head, then you know.

For a second, you could swear you love her.

* * *

_iv. Happiness_

The fourth time, and the last that you know of, is no spectacle, no drama. In a way, it feels almost – ordinary. That in itself says something about how far you've come. How far _he_'s come, more to the point.

Vulcan's as much of a furnace as ever, no surprise there. You know you shouldn't be drinking this fast, but dehydration lurks, so really, it's a medical matter. Besides, if you're not allowed that kind of indulgence at your age, when will you ever? Vulcans still don't drink, but there's a handful of human guests, and some alcoholic drinks to match. At least as long as you don't mind being scowled at when you order.

By the time the bride and groom arrive, you're tipsy. You're a melancholy drunk, Jim always told you, and that thought in itself really doesn't help. Jim is long gone, but you can almost imagine what he'd have said, standing here. He'd be hitting on Saavik the moment he saw her in that dress, tight and flowing and as illogical as they came. You'd be elbowing him in the ribs, and he'd grin that cheeky grin at you, a grin that meant "just try to stop me". Then he'd give Spock that look they had, the one that was deeper below the surface than above it, like an iceberg. The look you'd give anything to see again.

Of course, chances are, if Jim was alive, there might never have been a wedding at all.

But Jim isn't here. It's just you, worn and wobbly and more than a little drunk by now. Which is why you don't feel the slightest bit guilty when you take Saavik's hand and kiss it like you mean it. It's probably not the smartest act to be kissing a Vulcan's wife-to-be, especially a Vulcan in the throes of _Pon Farr._ Then again, it's not worse than putting your arms around said Vulcan and hugging him tight, and _that_ goes down surprisingly well.

You wonder, sometimes, in the years that come, if there's a fifth time, a sixth. If there are, they don't involve you, and in most ways that's good. There are no children, and you wonder about that, too. Still, they seem happy together, or whatever word Vulcans use to say –

No – happy _is_ the proper word.


End file.
